Page 81 of Daddy Defender

Henry

Six Months Later

The Guard safehouse in Miami is all concrete and steel, a far cry from the beach house Bodie and I call home.

I’m leaning against a table in the briefing room, my tactical vest off, my arm healed but another juicy scar to add to the collection, a permanent reminder of the shootout at the pier.

Cole’s across from me, his bulk filling a chair, his eyes steady as he sips coffee.

Connor’s at the window, his sniper’s gaze scanning the street below, always on watch.

We’re fresh off a mission—two weeks in the jungle, dismantling a cartel cell tied to Vince’s old network.

It was brutal, but clean, no losses on our side, the target neutralized.

My Daddy side’s itching to get back to Bodie, waiting for me with Poot, Billy, and Bubbles the new stuffy on the block. He’s probably sketching waves or planning our next surf lesson. Andwhile I’m still far from an expert surfer, I have to say that I’m beginning to get the surf fever. Being out on the waves, now that I’m making progress and not wiping out quite so much, is pretty damn awesome.

But that’s back home. We’ve got work to do here first…

Cole breaks the silence, his voice low. “Intel’s solid,” he says, sliding a tablet across the table. “Vince’s in federal lockup, maximum security. Feds used the evidence we left—ledgers, recordings, his own men turning on him. He’s looking at life, no parole. Cartel’s cut him loose, marked him for death if he ever sees daylight. He’sdone.”

“You think the cartel’s going to let him live in prison?” Connor asks. “Hell, he’ll be lucky to last six months.”

I nod, my jaw tight, relief mixing with the old anger.

Vince’s threats to Bodie, his hold over his Little side, are buried. The cartel’s local cell is in pieces, our ops over the last six months picking them apart.

They’re not gone—cartels never are—but they’re licking their wounds, too weak to come for Bodie.

My sweet surfer boy is free,trulyfree, and that’s worth every bullet, every scar.

Connor turns from the window, his voice clipped.

“New cell’s forming in Tijuana,” Connor says. “Small, but growing. We’ll need to move soon.”

“After a break,” I say, my tone firm. “Bodie’s waiting. So’s Richie. We earned it.”

Cole grins, a rare softness in his eyes.

“Damn right,” Cole adds. “Richie’s planning a stuffy party. Fizz’s in charge, apparently.”

We laugh, the tension easing, and I picture Bodie—his romper, his fairy lights, his giggle as he calls me Daddy. He’s been my rock, his empathy pulling me through the guilt over Hicks, his love giving me a reason to keep fighting.

The Guard’s my life, but Bodie is my home, and I’m not letting either go.

“Rally in a month,” I say, standing, grabbing my duffel. “I’m heading back. You two good?”

“Solid,” Connor says, nodding.

“Tell Richie I’m on the next flight,” Cole adds, his Daddy side standing tall and proud.

I head out, the Miami heat hitting me, my truck waiting.

The drive to the airport’s a blur, my mind on Bodie, on our beach house, on the life we’re building.

Bodie’s my Forever Little, and I’m his Forever Daddy, ready for whatever comes—cartels, missions, or just another sunset picnic, his hand in mine and our hearts bound together until the very end.